


Yelling

by dearcst



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Child Abuse, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester is an abusive asshole, M/M, Mary and Sam are dead I'm sorry ;-;, Wow so much angst, hurt!Dean, there's fluff at the end though don't worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 08:22:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4780436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearcst/pseuds/dearcst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“How long?” Cas demands.<br/>Dean doesn’t answer, can’t answer. He shrugs his shoulders.<br/>“For—For that long?” Cas’ voice rises with each word. “I can’t believe—I can’t believe this could be going on for so long and you not tell me about it!”<br/>Dean feels heavy, and Cas pulls away enough to look at him. Dean wants to pull him back. He wants the security. Cas’ jaw is set in that way that Dean’s father does when he’s angry. His fists are clenched at his sides. A fire is lit in his eyes—and Dean stumbles backwards for shock of seeing the signs of everything he’s feared on everything he’s loved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yelling

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another angsty prompt from my angsty anon on tumblr this took a while sorry XD School sucks i know I hope you like it though!

               Dean doesn't have much memory of a brother or a mother, yet he recalls the smell of smoke as easily as the color of the sky. 

               When Dean was four, he woke in the middle of the night. His father shook his shoulders, and told him to get outside as fast as he could. Dean stumbled in his steps. He tripped and fell, and then stood back up again, and he ran. He turned back around, and he saw his father among flames, rushing him through the door. It was hot, Dean had never experienced so much heat. The fire didn't look violent. It looked rather pretty, it looked rather friendly, and all too soon Dean found out it was anything but. There was an explosion as the fire reached the kitchen, and by extension the gas under the stove.

               Dean was ever so lost, looking for direction. He sat on the dying grass outside the house. His father stood beside him. His face was grim, eyes narrow and jaw set. Soon there were sirens. Soon there was... naught. Dean Winchester was told that he once had a brother, but that brother was six months old when he was lost in a fire. They used the word "lost" as if he could somehow be found. Dean Winchester was told that he once had a mother. He was never told his father had once been kinder, but Dean assumed so anyway.

               The first time Dean Winchester said the words “stop yelling” was when he was seven years old.  His father was drunk, screaming in his face for not being tall enough to reach another beer bottle. 

                Dean’s father had always been especially aggressive, but it had never been this much. Dean was small, fragile; John was loud, brash, loud, mean, loud. Mostly Loud.

               Chest tight, bottom lip wavering, Dean had shouted back into the sea of screams, “ _Stop yelling at me!_ ” and that same day, Dean realized that “stop yelling” also meant “start hitting.”

                Dean balled his small fists by his sides, staring defiantly up to a towering figure. So young, you might believe that others would simply do as you asked. Ignorance did not, does not, last long. Dean’s father wasn’t violent when sober, not that he was kind then, just not violent. At least for the first two years. Alcohol seemed to break John’s filter. His words left unrestrained, his fist left bruises. By eight, Dean learned to be quiet through the thunder of John’s voice. By nine Dean learned to hide.

                Dean is eighteen now, and it’s his senior year of high school, and he’s slipping. His best friend, Cas, lives right next door to him, has since fourth grade. Cas is beautiful, so stupidly beautiful, and Dean could never bring himself to say it out loud. He sits at the lunch table, bright blue eyes wide, lips in a tight, awkward smile. Dean stops breathing.

                “What?” Cas shakes his head, stuffing another bite of his sandwich into his mouth because Dean has been too openly staring. He’s supposed to be subtle about it, look away after a few seconds, and then it’s Cas’ turn to stare back at him.

                Dean opens his lips; the air speaks for him, _you’re beautiful_ , and then quiets down. Dean says, “Nothing.”

                Dean watches Cas’ tongue poke out and sweep across his chapped lips. The bell rings.

                Cas nudges Dean’s arm, “You alright?”

                “Yeah.”

                Dean’s arm is bruised from sometime yesterday. Dean can’t remember the reason anymore. There were too many. He’s in the way, he looked at his father “funny,” he didn’t make dinner on time, he was talking too loud, he left the TV on, he left the light in the bathroom on, he didn’t pick up more whisky (though he wasn’t legally old enough to.) There were too many reasons, and Dean was tired of keeping track of them.

                He didn’t tell Cas, doesn’t tell Cas, why would he? How could he? “Hey, by the way, my dad likes to beat me sometimes,” doesn’t come up in a conversation. Besides, Dean is getting along just fine, or at least he likes to convince himself that. He has days like these, waving goodbye to Cas as each of them part ways to go to fifth period. Dean’s unable to focus on anything because all he can hear are echoes of shouts, of screams, of yells.

                People have it worse, right? Dean has a roof over his head and, kind or not, he has a father. He shouldn’t complain.

                (Part of him thinks he deserves it.)

                The teacher’s projected voice is much, much too loud.

                Mr. Lafitte shouts, “Charlie!” when the girl raises her hand.

                Dean flinches and ducks his head. He clenches his fists and chews on his lip. Voices are itchy fingers on a light switch. Flipping on and off and on and off, the lights in the house blinking, the heart in his body stuttering. A few moments later, he grabs the bathroom pass and darts into the hallway. His chest heaves as he slams the bathroom door shut. He’s slipping. Everything’s starting to catch up with him, all the pain he tried to block away is coming down on him. His knuckles are white. He leans over the sink.

                And he breathes.

~~*~~

                “Are you okay?” Cas mumbles over his sandwich. His words are soft while his tone is sincere.

                “Yeah…” Dean says back, and it’s unconvincing. His eyes are on Cas’ lips, carefully chewing. They flick up to his eyes again. Cas gives him this look, tilts his head, as if to say, “ _Really, Dean?”_ so Dean elaborates, “I’m great.”

                Dean doesn’t want Cas to care. He knows he would because he’s just a dork like that. When Dean skinned his knee falling down the stairs Cas knelt in close—Dean froze as a frightened deer. He mumbled about how Dean should be more careful and then pulled him into the bathroom to wipe the blood away. It was a small, insignificant cut that led Dean to have massive, obtrusive feelings.

                Dean blinks the past away. His fingers itch to reach out and touch what he won’t allow himself. His veins lead to purple gashes and bruises oozing poison. He is a drop of food coloring in white cake batter.

                He finds himself wondering, “what’s the point?”

                Cas nudges his shoulder and tells him to eat. There’s only five minutes left for lunch, and Dean has only eaten one bite. Dean isn’t hungry. He hardly has an appetite anymore.

                “Dean,” Cas says again, trying to find his eyes, but Dean won’t meet them.

                The bell rings and Dean dumps his food into the trash.

                “Hey,” Cas says gently and grabs Dean’s arm before he escapes the room, “What’s up with you?”

                Pain flares up Dean’s arm. Cas doesn’t mean to hurt him, Dean knows this, but it aches somewhere in his chest to know that he is. He doesn’t know what happened. He was probably thrown into the table.

                “Nothing,” Dean promises, “I’m gonna be late.”

~~*~~

                Dean’s mind is scattered; it is fractured.

                His thoughts are chaotic; he organizes the events of his life like fragmented sentences.

                Since Dean cannot speak. Wanting, yearning, desiring for things Dean can’t yet put into words—Quiet ever is the world, oh so frustratingly quiet. Everything is too loud—it’s too soft—if it’s too quiet the absence of violence drives Dean to insanity, yet while it’s there.

                Fragments.

                While John holds Dean by the collar of his shirt.

~~*~~

                “What’s that? On your arm?” Castiel pulls the flannel of Dean’s shirt up a bit farther.

                Dean shrugs his shoulder, whether to answer the question or to shake of Cas’ arm, Dean didn’t know. Probably both. The bell was about to ring any moment, and Dean started to collect his things early.

                “Dean,” Castiel presses, tugging the sleeve higher. His breath escapes him, he wills his sight to. “Dean, what happened?”

                A large bruise paints his arm, scrapes and cuts around it like flower pedals. Vague memory of broken beer bottles on the floor, one forceful shove, and—the yelling.

                “Doesn’t matter,” Dean mumbles.

                “ _Doesn’t matter?”_ Castiel parrots, “What do you mean it doesn’t matter?” And then when Dean turns towards the door, Castiel says again, “ _Dean_.”

                The bell rings.

~~*~~

                On his bed, the ceiling tells stories of a requited love. Dean’s mind projects images of dreams far beyond his reach, and of lips even farther than stars. Dean’s hand clenches on top of his chest as if to grasp his own heart, and he pulls the fist upwards. His head falls to the side, and he looks at the wall.

                _Castiel_ , and Dean has no clearer name in his mind. A door slams somewhere, and Dean clings to the thought of Castiel more furiously—he fears it will disappear. Heavy footsteps near, and Dean holds tighter. Dean says his friend’s name like a prayer, and wonders just how much Castiel may be disgusted if he were to find out how dearly Dean holds his name.

                The footsteps stop, and relief drenches Dean like a rag. His fist loosens, he looks at the ceiling again, and he fondles an absent desire.

~~*~~

                Castiel meets him before school, arms crossed, eyes accusing. Dean’s eyes dilate and he feels his features lift into something that is not quite a smile, but something softer than whatever expression is normally held there. Castiel uncrosses his arms as Dean approaches, having been leaning against the wall.

                “Tell me what it was,” Castiel starts without preamble, grabbing for Dean’s arm again. He pulls Dean’s shirt sleeve up and Dean watches in a mixture of confusion and disbelief as Cas’ thumb runs softly over the tender skin.  How could someone so undamaged show love for something that is… just that?

                Damaged.

                Dean is quiet. He could lie. Castiel wouldn’t believe him, but he could. He opens his mouth, but then closes it again. Castiel is waiting patiently for an answer, and every fiber of Dean’s being tells him to appease the tentative hand on his arm. How gentle, how loving—but such trickery is the word “love,” and Dean will not let himself use it so lightly. It is used here, but not in Dean’s mind.

                Another minute of silence passes, Castiel stares determinedly into Dean’s eyes.

                “You can tell me anything,” Cas pledges, “Can’t you? Would you?”

                “Of course,” Dean answers immediately.

                Castiel’s lips presses together, his voice is hard when he starts again, “Then why—“

                “I can’t,” Dean interrupts. “I just—I can’t. I don’t know how to say it.”

                Another beat of silence passes and is dragged by as slow as paint dries.

                “How did it happen?” Castiel tries, but Dean shakes his head.

                “It was,” he starts and chokes on his words. “I don’t know. I can’t say it. I don’t understand it.”

                After eighteen years of keeping it hidden, after eighteen years of keeping it unspoken—it is a sin to speak of it—Dean finds his words lost. He finds that it was not because he does not want to say it, but it is because the words did not exist. It was because he does not want to tarnish something too beautiful.

                Castiel is close. His breath is on Dean’s cheek. Dean’s chest rises and falls rapidly, he wants to pull himself away because it’s too intimate, it’s too personal, he’s going to ruin it—but at the same time he is selfish, and he cannot bring himself away. Dean’s hand is flat on Cas’ chest, in the early morning, with students just starting to arrive and walk around them, Dean leans in closer.

                He says, “tell me to stop.”

                Castiel does not respond.

                “Tell me I can’t,” he whispers.

                Castiel doesn’t.

~~*~~

                Dean smiles in his home for the first time in Dean can’t remember how long. Dean is hidden in his room, smiling dazed at the ceiling. His feet are cold and under a blanket; his hands are over his chest. His pulse races—his fingers spread out above his heart and then rises to touch his lips.

                Castiel _kissed_ him.

                Castiel kissed _him_.

                His teeth are pulled from the curtain of his lips in a gummy smile, a lighthearted laugh bubbles up from his chest and he turns over onto his side, curling his body inwards.  The bell had rung—of course the bell rang, it always rang when something important happened that needed to be interrupted—before they could discuss it any further. Castiel had told him he “wasn’t off the hook,” and Dean believes him. He’ll tell him. Someday, somehow. But not now.

                Dean swings his legs over the bed. The springs groan, the blankets drape and fall. Dean’s father should be home in an hour, which means Dean needs to have dinner done before then.

                The lights are all off in the house. Dean hadn’t bothered to turn them on when the daylight provided enough to see by, but now it is just after seven, and the sun is setting. Dean is familiar with the house, of course, so it isn’t difficult. He decides the darkness is comforting.

                Pots clang and sing on the counter. The water is switched on, and a pot is set over the stove on high. Spaghetti is easy to make, which is why Dean makes it so often.

                He is barefoot. The water boils and Dean drops the pasta in.

                Too early, the door swings open.

                In stumbles a drunken man, hair astray; his eyes are vacant of soul and full of detest. Dean drops the spoon in his hand. It clatters, the only sound heard in the room other than John’s heavy breathing. He’s home too early, he’s home too early, repeats in Dean’s head, he shouldn’t be home this early. Dean flinches as something crashes—he can’t see what—and the footsteps grow louder; he can see the shadow from the doorway becoming more and more clear with each passing second. Uneasiness curls around Dean’s heart. He wants to run.

                Dean can’t remember the last time he properly saw his father’s face. Dean always avoided him as much as possible, and when contact was forced, Dean did not look at him. His muscles are tense, and Dean feels the instinct to square his shoulders and lift his chin. He suppresses it.

                “Wa’s this?” John’s voice is small yet anything but feeble. It’s quiet, like a hunter seeking game.

                “Spaghetti,” Dean answers because he’s supposed to.

                John’s face is heavy like a dirty towel hung between two beach chairs. His lips twitch not upwards, but not quite downwards either. Dean belatedly notices the beer bottle in John’s right hand—of course, he isn’t surprised—though he is shocked when John slams the bottle over the countertop, sending shards into the air.

                Dean takes a step backwards with his arms raised in front of his face. He doesn’t know what he did wrong, he never knows what he does wrong, if he did he would fix it, but he doesn’t, so he can’t, he doesn’t know what he does wrong. John is yelling, yelling, yelling, and Dean covers his ears. The words are warped and disgusting, scratching at the backs of his hands. His teeth click together, and Dean would have closed his eyes, too, if he weren’t too cowardly.

                John’s eyes are ablaze and his fists are poised—Dean wondered if John ever used those hands for anything other than violence.

                John normally avoids Dean’s face, so Dean’s surprised when his left eye starts throbbing. His hand blocks the hit too late, and instead settles for cradling the bruised skin. Dean watches teary-eyed as John’s lips move and move and move, he’s yelling and yelling and yelling, Dean cries.

                Dean’s back is to the wall. John is two meters in front of him; John grabs the pot by the handle and throws it to the floor, just missing Dean’s feet. The water flies and burns Dean’s arm as it falls; Dean shakes in fear.

                John is still yelling, omnipresent pain, and grabs him by the hair and throws him away towards the door.

                Dean isn’t sure if John told him to leave or not. He always stops listening.

                But the door is right there—

                So he runs.

~~*~~

                His best friend, Castiel, lives right next door to him, has since fourth grade. Dean bangs his fist on the door. Maybe Cas’ mom would answer—it’s pretty ironic. His best friend is missing a father and Dean is missing a mother. Dean can’t find it in him to care about anything. He doesn’t care who sees him like this as long as he can see Cas. He only needs Cas. Needs him like he needs air, needs him like he needs water or food or shelter or whatever else they tell you is a basic need—suddenly those needs are missing something because Dean’s list of basic needs goes like this: water, food, shelter, Cas.

                The door swings open, and it’s Cas. Confused, bleary-eyed, beautiful Cas. The confusion quickly falls off his face like a dropped curtain, replaced by shock.

                “Dean,” Cas breathes, “Dean what the _hell_ happened? Who—”

                Dean breaks Cas off there, rushing into his chest. He knows he’s a mess, he’s been crying and he’s shaking and he’s pretty beat up, but he just needs Cas. He needs Cas’ tight arms around him like now. His soft words of reassurance like now. The kiss atop his head. Like now.

                Dean is pulled into Cas’ house and the door is closed. Cas is whispering into his hair, but Dean’s ears stopped working a while ago. He feels Cas’ long, gentle fingers running through his hair and it tangles his guts up into a jittery sense of serenity. Dean’s hands are tight on Cas’ stupid sweater. Why does he wear these dorky sweaters at home? Dean’s heart swells. He likes it.

                Cas’ hands stop in his hair and Dean blinks dazedly. Oh. Cas is trying to talk to him.

                “Dean,” Cas says, he sounds _scared_ , “Dean, can you hear me?”

                Dean blinks a few more times. He swallows. He nods.

                Cas is leaning in close to his face; his thumbs trace over Dean’s cheekbones.

                “What happened to you?” Cas whispered in all the ways Dean loved, “Please tell me.”

                And the thing is, when someone like Cas says the word “please,” it doesn’t matter if he’s asking you to fly to the moon. You’re supposed to do it.

                “Dad,” Dean croaks out. His voice is torn and his throat is sore from crying. “My dad, he—“

                Cas pulls Dean back into his arms again, tighter and more possessively. Dean’s cheek is pressed against Cas’ chest, his knees bent slightly. He doesn’t have a good sense of balance, and would have probably fallen if Cas hadn’t had such a grip on him.

                “Your _dad?_ ” Cas echoes. He does that sometimes. “You go home to someone like _this_ every day?”

                Cas’ voice isn’t a whisper anymore. He is talking at a normal volume which is too much for Dean at the moment, but it’s Cas, and Dean always makes exceptions for Cas. Dean nods in response to Cas’ question.

                “How long?” Cas demands.

                Dean doesn’t answer, can’t answer. He shrugs his shoulders.

                “For—For _that_ long?” Cas’ voice rises with each word. “I can’t believe—I can’t _believe_ this could be going on for so long and you _not tell me about it!”_

                Dean feels heavy, and Cas pulls away enough to look at him. Dean wants to pull him back. He wants the security. Cas’ jaw is set in that way that Dean’s father does when he’s angry. His fists are clenched at his sides. A fire is lit in his eyes—and Dean stumbles backwards for shock of seeing the signs of everything he’s feared on everything he’s loved.

                “That bruise the other day,” Cas shakes his head, his voice is too loud, “All of—Dean we were _eleven years old_ when I first saw a bruise on you! How can you not say anything?”

                Every instinct tells Dean to stop listening. He normally stops listening. His eyes are wide, frightened, his hands twitch and shake—and he brings his arms in front of his chest defensively.

                “Don’t you trust me?” Cas’ voice gets louder and louder, “You can’t keep things like _this_ to yourself!”

                The world freezes—Cas takes a step forward—and Dean stumbles back and back and back and back until he trips over a chair.

                “Just—Stop—Please—“ he chokes out from the floor. He turns his head towards the left and to the ground, an arm over his eyes. He doesn’t want to watch.

                “Dean—“ Cas’ voice is broken, vacant, small.

                His footsteps aren’t heavy, they are light and airy, pattering and quick like rain. Warm, soft hands hold him by the shoulders and Dean lowers his arms. His eyes are red and puffy; he’s started crying again.

                “Dean,” Cas repeats, somehow hiding a novel inside one word, he says it again, “Dean.”

                “I’m so, so scared,” Dean says wordless in a breath of air.

                Cas pulls Dean into his lap like a child, his hands in his hair. He shushes him and holds him. Dean presses his face into Cas’ shirt, forcing him backwards.

                They are on the floor in a neat room, one chair on its side, Dean sprawls over Cas’ body, grabbing his shirt as if it is the meaning of life. Cas’ chest rises and falls rapidly, but not as rapidly as Dean’s.

                “I love you, I love you, I love you,” Dean whispers into Cas’ shirt, a prayer.

                Cas’ grip on him tightens, “I love you, too, Dean,” his voice cracks on the last word. “I don’t want you hurt. Don’t—Don’t go home. Stay here.”

                Dean’s hand is pressed over Cas’ chest; he doesn’t look up when, in a small, almost inaudible voice, he confides: “ _You_ are home.”


End file.
